Glorious Stories

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            I never asked to be born; I certainly never asked to be born twice—yet there I was, alive at a very great cost, as my mother never ceased to remind me.  Whenever I allowed myself to grow lax in my affection, or if she felt cross about anything at all, even things outside of my control, the subject inevitably came up.  One would think I would have grown used to it after twenty-seven years, yet I never did.  It was something that continually managed to prick at my pride no matter how many times she said it. 

            Oh, she said many things that pricked me; petty complaints about the quality of my work and magical ability, lamentations about my lack of gratitude, accusations of infidelity—ah, those stung too, more than any of the aspersions cast on me by the villagers in Casenga—but of most of those things I had long since learned to brush off.  A sufficient show of indignation sometimes bought me her sympathy, and bit of contrived penitence and humility could deflect the matter until her mood improved and she worshipped me again.  Still, it was the subject of my complicated birth I think that bothered me the most.  When she accused my eyes of wandering it moved me to anger; when she lamented my very existence it seemed to extinguish whatever ephemeral spark of cheer had dared to flicker in my heart.

            I looked down, suddenly aware that I was clenching the reins in a white-knuckled grip, and had drawn them too tight for my poor horse Cavallo as he plodded along ahead of the cart. 

            “Sorry, old boy!” I apologized, easing my hold and sitting back in my seat.  The shabby horse’s ears flickered at the sound of my voice, and he tossed his head, bringing me a flash of amusement despite my dour mood.  With a sigh, I crossed my ankle over my knee and lounged as well as I could on the wooden bench while we bumped and rolled along the forest path.  I found that if I took up a relaxed position, it was easier to make my spirit relax as well.  Only a few hours more on the road and I would be in Casenga for Deliver Day.  Perhaps then I could put a little of my ire with Mother aside for a time.  It was well that our latest argument had occurred now, when a few days apart would give us both opportunities to renew our patience with each other.  So often we got on each other’s nerves.  Things had been better, in recent years—so much so that I had almost dared to hope that the worst days were behind us, but of course nothing had really changed.  The fact that I’d managed to convince myself that they might someday pass was a testament to my excellent skills in deceit. 

All is well, I told myself wearily, then amended, all WILL be well.  A day or two in Casenga will sooth both our tempers and make for a pleasant return, as usual. 

            I felt a slight shudder in my diaphragm, a subtle physical acknowledgement of the lie I had just crafted, but I ignored it as I always did.  Ordinarily it would not bother me at all, for these false little assurances were often all that bore me through a day.  But since quarreling with Pru, I had been more conscious of my apparently odious habit.

            At the thought of Pru, my heart sank, and I felt my fist tightening about the rains again.  The weight of her cold disapproval was constantly on my mind these days.  I could not forget how she had scolded me, chastening with scathing disdain that affected me far deeper than I was willing to admit. 

She thinks me the very embodiment of corruption…

Her sentiments were not so different from those I’d experienced in Casenga thousands of times, but to know that even she thought so poorly of me—and after all I had done for her, everything I risked for her sake…

            I swallowed, ceasing my bitter musings.  That entitled line of thought ran far too close to how my mother often spoke to me, and I had no wish to treat Prunella in such a fashion.  She deserved better than that, everyone did.  She had every right to disapprove of me, for in truth I was corrupt.  I was neither good nor moral like the people she came from; I was the witch’s get.  Pru had no idea how much evil I was responsible for, and even if Mother’s strictures had not bound my tongue on the subject, I did not think I could have brought myself to confess the extent of my crimes to her. 

            I slipped my hand into the pocket of my doublet to touch the smooth glass of the medicine vial I’d prepared for her father.  At least with this I might undo a little of the damage I’d done.  I wished that I could go and heal every man who’d labored in those cursed mines, but thus far I had not been able to scheme up a way to do so without violating my strictures.  I’d made sure to deliver an overabundance of charmed lyssum and elderbead tincture to Mistress Ripaldi on my last visit—hopefully she would make use of them now that they were in her possession, and not be stubborn just because I’d forced her to take them.  She had always struck me as the kind of woman who could be detrimentally principled like that.  She and Pru had that in common.

                  I gave another sigh at that thought.  I could not disapprove too strongly of those stalwart principles. That was one of the things I admired most about Pru; she was so determinately honorable.  Absolutely, rigidly, unflappably honorable.  She practically shone with righteous fervor, and I found it utterly charming.  Mother couldn’t stand it; she thought it was all for show, but I disagreed.  Pru might relish the admiration her honor afforded her, but she also believed in it, through and through.  She could be haughty, it was true—but she was genuine, and gracious, and brave.  Most of all, she was kind.  That in itself spoke volumes to me.  It was what drew me to her like water to a sponge.  The memory of her sweetness under the plum tree all those years ago, her gentle touch and warm embrace, invaded my mind and intoxicated my senses at all the wrong moments.  She had not intended to ensnare my heart that day, yet as much of my heart as I could spare from my mother’s grip had been obediently hers ever since.  If Pru could understand the depth of her hold on me, she would never treat me with such disdain; she was too compassionate for that. 

            Ah, but I could not tell her.  I did not dare.  To speak such a sentiment aloud would make it too real, and that was a risk I could not take with her.  I had taken entirely too many risks with her already, evidenced by the very fact that she now languished in my mother’s house because of my reckless gifts. 

            I winced, grimacing as my chest twinged with guilt for what must have been the millionth time.  I loved having Pru in the house—I reveled in her nearness—but the danger she was in tore at me night and day, and I had only myself to blame.  I should never have allowed her to take blindly from that tree.  I should have made it wither and die.  Instead, I had nourished it, made it beautiful and prosperous to tempt her back into our forest.  I’d been careless, selfish, thoughtlessly indulging my hunger for her presence, heedless of the wrath she would suffer if she were caught.

            Worse still, when I’d realized that Pru was my mother’s new slave, I was actually glad, if only for a fraction of a second.  Glad because now she would be with me, and she could be mine in secret, if she would only let me woo her.  But just as quickly, the horror of it settled on me, and it had taken every fiber of my control not to show it on my face.  In that cold, awful moment of realization, I had felt the closest thing to hatred I’d ever experienced for my mother, for the full scope of it came together in my mind in an instant.  She had stolen this innocent girl from everything she knew and loved, with the intent of tormenting, breaking, and using her, until every ounce of magic and life was wrung from her beautiful body—and all because Mother was too much a coward to expend enough of her own magic to accomplish her dark purposes. 

            Then in the next instant, my outrage had dissipated and my mind had snapped around in the opposite direction, for such a heinous sentiment could not exist within me. I loved my mother, she was just and benevolent and upright in all her ways, full of mercy and generosity to spare my beloved’s life—

            I blinked, shuddering deeply as I shook off the distressing memory.  It was best not to dwell on moments like that; the jagged edges of my fractured mind were rarely so apparent as when I tried to delve into exactly how I felt about… certain things. 

            A bump in the road under the cart jolted me back to my senses, and a cold gust of wind almost took my hat off.  Catching it deftly, I charmed it to stay on my head, grateful for the distraction.  And, feeling the need for further distraction, I fished the other object out of my pocket—this one by far my favorite, for it was Prunella’s ribbon.

            Rich and beautiful in its deep plum color, it had looked so lovely in her hair that day we met in the apothecary.  I took off my glove and ran my thumb along the silken length of the ribbon, glorying in its smooth texture.  Not for the first time, I lifted it to inhale the remnants of her fragrance and imagined holding not a ribbon, but a lock of her soft auburn hair.  How many times had I thought of pressing my lips to those thick curls, of brushing them back from her pale neck to kiss her there instead…?

            These were much more pleasant thoughts.  Clutching the ribbon, I returned it to my pocket with a pang, wishing that I had brought it along solely to indulge in such inebriating daydreams—yet such was not the case.  I was a thief in many ways, but I had not stolen the ribbon for myself alone.  It was my white flag; my assurance to Prunella’s family that I was her friend and their ally.

            A shiver of nerves went through me at that thought.  Her family.  Her parents.  I had not told her of my intent before leaving—I did not want to see her angry with me again, and she certainly would have been angry had she known that I meant to find them.  So far, she had been very clever about keeping her name and her family a secret.  She did not know that Mother could not visit the village herself, and thankfully Mother had so far neglected to tell me to do anything about Pru’s family.  I had worried, at first, that Mother might instruct me to threaten or harm them in some way, to force poor little Pru into openly acknowledging her magic, but when no such order came, I relaxed.  Apparently Mother was content to play her bitter games, inventing trials to force Pru’s magic to light. 

            Now that Delivery Day had come, I could find the family on my own, not to threaten but to offer genuine assistance.  For if I categorized them as an extension of our household by way of their connection with our slave—after all, they too had eaten the plums she stole—then I thought I could probably help them without needing to require payment.  I felt no vile constrictions on my soul when I considered the plan, no ominous choking sensations or waves of nausea, so my strictures would probably not prevent me from helping them. 

            I smirked, congratulating myself silently for my mental games.  Though it strained my soul and body, I had always relished finding ways to resist Mother’s hold on me.  Over the years I had become quite good at it.  Ah, if Pru only knew how clever I could be.  Would she admire me then?

*  *  *

            “Absolutely not!”

            Mistress Ripaldi’s face was livid, the whites of her eyes showing as she stood her ground before me, glaring up at me with her arms crossed.  Though her cheeks were red, the rest of her complexion was quite pale, so I knew how frightened she must be. 

I tried again, more gently this time.  “No harm will come to them; this is no betrayal.  Please, Mistress, I want the names of the young woman’s parents, and their place of residence—that is all.”

She stamped her foot.  “No!”

“It will be to their benefit, I assure you.”

“As if I would believe such lies!  Do you think me a fool, Bensiabel?”

I tightened my lips, choosing to ignore the fact that she had neglected to use the honorific of ‘master’ that my age and station merited. Mother demanded that the villagers treat me with respect, but I was in no mood to enforce her order at the moment.  “Need I remind you, Mistress Ripaldi, that you owe me the equivalent of a whole silver piece?”

The old woman’s fingers trembled, but she tightened them around her arms to hide her fear and stood her ground.  “Two human lives are worth far more than a silver piece.  I will not betray them.”

I contained my vexation by releasing a long sigh through my nose as I flexed my jaw, knowing that she meant well.  Most common people were under the illusion that a witch could steal a person’s soul simply by learning their name.  In reality it was more complicated than that: a witch needed to have the name, not just know it.  That meant obtaining it either from the individual whose name was in question, or from a proper source like a parent, or census record, or a gravestone.  Fates!  If learning a name from a stranger in the streets could give me power, no one would ever be safe!

Well, I could not blame Mistress Ripaldi for her ignorance, and it was better for everyone to be overcautious than to make themselves too free with something as powerful as names.  Nevertheless, I could not afford to allow her reluctance to hinder me; today was my one day to accomplish anything for Pru, and I would not waste this chance.

“Madam Shopkeeper,” I whispered, drawing myself up to my full height and glaring down my nose at the old woman.  I unleashed a subtle wave of power, dampening the light in the room and emanating a low, rumbling hum of sound just on the edge of her ability to hear it.  Such frequencies tended to inspire dread in humankind, and I saw the effect of it immediately in the poor apothecary’s eyes.  She quavered, retreating from me.

“I have come for those names, and I will have those names,” I said evenly.  “If you consider them worth more than your debt, so be it.  Your account will be cleared and you will have me in your debt instead; you will have me as your enemy otherwise.”

A whimper escaped her and she pressed a wrinkled hand to her heart.  I felt a flash of pity, but I continued, knowing that I need only push a little further before she relented.  “Does your heartbeat quicken, maiden?” I asked, stepping closer, causing my shadow to fall across her face even as she backed away.

“It will quicken all the more before I leave,” I promised, stretching out my hand.  “I can wring from it every beat that remains to you in your brief, mortal life.  Years flown by in an instant at my command.  Give me the names, Mistress Ripaldi.”

The woman shook, tears brimming in her eyes.  She bowed her head and covered her brow with one frail hand.  “Helias and Madiana.  They live on a farm just past the bend in the west road.”

“There.”  I relaxed, allowing the sunlight back in the room and ceasing the maddening hum.  I reached out and touched her shoulder, assessing her body with a few gentle tendrils of my magic to make sure I had not frightened her too badly.  Discovering that she was well, I gave her a squeeze and smiled.  “Thank you.  As promised, I am in your debt.  Call on my any time you wish; if it is in my power to help you, I am yours to command.”

The woman looked up at me, but I did not stay to observe her hatred.  With a flourish of my cape, I turned my back on her and left.

*  *  *

            The encounter left a foul taste in my mouth.  I stalked through the streets, brows pulled together and eyes nearly closed as I tried to put the memory of it behind me.  I hated acting in such a way, inciting fear in those weaker than myself.  Too often it seemed to be my only recourse, but I couldn’t shake the guilt that consumed me afterward.  Teasing the villagers with affected avarice was one thing, and leveraging their expectations of me to my advantage often brought me amusement, but this was another thing entirely.  If Pru had despised me for putting a geas on Micio, what would she think of me for threatening Mistress Ripaldi?

            I shut my mind to that thought and conducted the rest of my business about town in as brusque and dispassionate a fashion as I could.  I barely noticed what anybody said to me, not in the town hall, nor in the market, nor when I stabled Cavallo and the cart in the inn for the night.

            The innkeeper opened my customary room and muttered a tremulous welcome, and I dismissed him with a less-than-patient wave, not wishing to waste any more time.  Evening was near, and the little farm waited for me just beyond the town.

            Setting my things down, I glanced out the window, which ironically faced the west.  To think, all these years I had stayed here on Delivery Days, never knowing that my window looked out toward her dwelling.  Had I known, my visits would have been both sweeter and more painful, for I yearned for her constantly.  I had never made a concerted effort to discover her identity of course—I was selfish, but not that selfish—but I had sometimes wandered about, hoping to encounter her by chance. 

On occasion I had seen her, from a distance.  I remembered once catching a glimpse of her in the marketplace some years after we’d first met, and that was when I’d noticed how beautiful she was.  Until then, I had thought of her only as a sweet little child friend, for so she had been on our first meeting.  I had planned to approach her with an open smile if I saw her again, and ask if she remembered me as her strange, ghostly playmate from the forest. 

But on the day I saw her in the market, it was patently clear that she had become a young woman, with a warm, striking beauty that was somehow both strong and feminine. 

I completely lost my nerve.  I could not recall ever being so flustered.  I gaped at her, speechless while she passed me by, apparently unaware of my presence.  When I finally recovered myself, she was gone, and in her place stood a tall, black-haired man whom I took to be her father, glowering at me with a gaze so fearsome it made my blood freeze.  He turned from me without a word, and I stood rooted to my spot until they were both well away.  I never saw her afterward, and I supposed he must have kept her out of town on Delivery Days from then on to shield her from the eyes of the Witch’s son. 

            I drummed my finger on the windowsill, thinking of her father.  I was to meet him again in person today, and I suspected he’d glower all over again when I arrived.  Perhaps that was why I lingered here when I had only moments ago been anxious to get on my way. 

            A bit of sweat crept over my forehead, and I brushed at my forelock restlessly before pushing off of the windowsill and leaving my room in a rush.  The vial and the ribbon were safe in my pocket; I would go straight to the farm and tell her parents everything.  I considered riding Cavallo, but he’d had a long walk today already and would need his rest.  Mistress Ripaldi had assured me that the farm was not far out of town, so I would make it just as well on foot.

            As I neared the edge of town, the schoolhouse drew my eye.  The children had long since gone home, but I could see the silhouette of the schoolmaster moving around through the windows.  I slowed, hesitating only briefly before diverting my course to his door.  Perhaps I could afford to delay my journey to the farm a few minutes longer—a conversation with Master Dante would do my nerves good.

            Exactly why my nerves needed ‘doing good’ eluded me, but I did not dwell on the question.

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